Drown the Things That Float
by Legend96
Summary: "The dancing in the attempt to forget everything had ceased but the storm raged on around him, bringing back every memory he'd worked to forget for the last several months, bringing back every feeling he'd tried to drown out. It seemed painful memories floated like wood and didn't sink like lead." Malec, angst.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Cassie Clare, on the other hand, does.**

It was a wicked sort of storm.

It was the type of storm that shook both the sky and the earth each time the lightning flashed and the thunder cracked after it, the type of storm that cut through your body to your bones and rattled them so carelessly you had to grasp something to keep yourself upright. It was the type of storm that stole your breath if you watched it from within a home, looking out a window with your arms wrapped around yourself - and it was the type of storm that elicted maniacal laughter if you stood out in it and witnessed it first hand with your arms thrown wide open.

It was exactly the type of storm Alec Lightwood never knew he needed, the sort of storm that intoxicated him on levels the liquor never could. It thrilled him and tore his spirit from his body and tossed it around in the air and left his body in absolute madness. He loved the feel of it.

He loved running into this storm the way he loved drowning himself in whiskey. He loved standing there as he let the razor rain slice at his face as it fell sideways the same way he loved brandy. He loved the burning feeling the wind gave to his hands as he whipped them through the air the same way he loved the vodka leaving a trail down his throat.

He loved how it gave him the absolute ability to forget.

Or, at least, to almost forget.

He never could completely forget how during these storms before the whiskey and the brandy and the vodka, before the controling desire to drown himself in memory loss, how he would curl into a warm embrace and kiss a soft pair of lips and whisper into a smiling mouth, "I love you."

He could never forget the arms that would slither around the middle of his waist, the voice that would sound into his ear and draw him in closer, the eyelashes that fluttered against his bare shoulder. He could never forget the soft moans when the storms cut the power and one little blue flash lit every candle in the room. He could never forget how those soft moans would sometimes escalate and there would be a panting and an intensity that he could marvel in and love with his whole being until the panting and the moaning would stop; the instensity was still there, was still thriving in the intimacy that the moaning and panting had brought in joint with the storm.

He could never forget how after all of this there would be long fingers that would trace his lips and then he'd be kissed and he'd hear back to him, "I love you, too." He could never forget how he'd wake up and the storm would be passed and the sun would be out, shining through ridiculously bright curtains that had been closed to add to the sense of intimacy. He could never forget how their legs would be entangled and he'd twirl a strand of the still sleeping's hair around his finger until the still sleeping's eyelids would flutter and a soft, pleased sort of purr would start in his throat.

He could never forget any of it. There was no amount of liquor that could burn down his throat and hopefully burn away the memories with it, and there was no amount of flinging his soul into the heavens of the violence of the storm that could tear them away. There was nothing that could take it all away. There was nothing that could take the pain the memories brought and wipe it away as simply as wiping water off a glass surface.

So Alec Lightwood stood there in the middle of a deserted New York street (as everyone had opted for the breathless, arms around themselves, safe sort of awe), letting the rain rip at him and the wind try and tear him from the ground, his eyes open and his heart rate slowing. The dancing in the attempt to forget everything had ceased but the storm raged on around him, bringing back every memory he'd worked to forget for the last several months, bringing back every feeling he'd tried to drown out.

It seemed painful memories floated like wood and didn't sink like lead. He was sort of glad that the tears on his face were masked by the storm. He was sort of glad that there was beginning to be an aching in his outstretched arms, something else that was painful enough for him to focus on instead. He was glad for the beginning of the crick in his neck because of how his head was thrown back, and he was incredibly grateful for -

"_Are you absolutely and completely crazy_?!"

Alec started, his entire body shuddering as he broke his wide open stance, looking towards the source of the voice. Standing there beneath a sort of green and wavy extended roof stood two people - once was his sister and the other the cause of his trying to drown everything that could only float. He sighed deeply and tried to hide the tears as best he could, and when he started walking to them his sister's foot started to tap less but the other's bouncing on the balls of his feet was increasing more and more.

"What one earth were you possibly thinking?" he shouted, grabbing Alec by the collar of his jacket. Isabelle only grabbed onto Magnus's arm, glaring at him, and Magnus's grip loosened but did not fall. "What?" Magnus asked again, "were you possibly thinking?"

Alec didn't answer for a moment. When he did, his voice was small, and breathless: "I needed it."

Magnus looked from Alec to the raging storm and back to Alec before letting him go completely and pinching the bridge of his nose. "You needed it," he hissed. His face contorted into an expression of both anger and desperation. Isabelle cut in, before Magnus could continue, "Alec, you're bleeding."

Alec lifted a hand to touch the stinging part of his cheek and pulled his fingers away. There was a bit of red on the tips of them, and he shrugged. "Just a scratch," he mumbled. He looked down to his shoes and sucked in a breath. Magnus lifted his head back up and turned it so he could inspect the cut, and swiped his thumb over Alec's cheek. Alec's intake of breath was so sudden it made Isabelle jump and take a step back, eyes a bit wide. Magnus didn't react, but his thumb left behind a small trail of blue sparks, the cut healed.

Alec jerked back and met Magnus's gaze. "You don't have to heal me anymore!" he practically spat. "I don't understand why you insist on being around here anymore, anyway! I thought you hated me, and I thought the only reason you ever stuck around was because we were sleeping together!"

Magnus turned his gaze away, his head bowing. "I'm sorry you think that," he said, his voice low. He turned away and walked a few steps before stopping and turning around again. Isabelle was still silent and wide eyed, watching and breathing as quietly as she could. And then Magnus said, "I understand, why you needed it. But you shouldn't need it. You should move on." And then he was gone, walking around a corner and disappearing from both sight and earshot.

"Alec," Isabelle whispered after several moments of silence. "Alec, what did that mean? You needing to be in the storm?"

He waited to answer, watching where Magnus had gone before sucking in another breath and actually letting her see his tears. "Nothing, Isabelle," he said. "It's just a lot easier to be out there than be standing here."

**AN: You've no idea how quickly this wrote itself after "It was a wicked sort of storm" was typed.**

**Also, I'm not entirely sure if I want to add another chapter to this. We'll see, I guess.**

**Enjoy~**


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